


living gods as hellenistic art

by halcyonrevival



Category: Lore Olympus (Webcomic)
Genre: Chapter 78, Character Study, F/M, Gen, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, can you imagine seeing hades for the first time, chapter 73, hades is drunk, spoilers for non fast passers!!!, zeus is honestly the worst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-04
Updated: 2019-09-12
Packaged: 2020-10-09 23:34:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20518283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halcyonrevival/pseuds/halcyonrevival
Summary: NOTE: Chapters contain Fast Pass content, so BIG SPOILER WARNING for non fast passersstarted out as a Persephone character study, turning into a multi-chapter fic focusing on the different characters in Lore Olympus.--how does a fertility goddess cope with an oppressive mother and her own sexuality? how does the Queen of the Gods live with the pain she's caused and the pain she's endured?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hi hello, I've been writing fanfiction since like, the 8th grade, but this is the first piece I've uploaded here. 
> 
> I'm really just fascinated by Lore Olympus and the characters in it. I'm just playing in Rachel's sandbox, and I promise I put everything back where it was when I found it.

Persephone was in bed, willing herself to fall asleep. She was in trouble with her mother already, and the ball of energy sitting behind her ribcage was starting to thrum around again.

It had just been a late-night meeting with Hermes. And it wasn’t like her mother actually _knew_ what was going on. Sure, she had snuck out through her window and crept past her mother’s quarters and foregone her mortal clothing and had almost been caught by a group of travelers and had been drinking wine. All it looked like though was Persephone out traipsing through the woods, leaving a rather conspicuous trail of petals behind her.

But Persephone knew of her mother’s “mysteries”, the hedonistic festivals that celebrated her. She had heard from Hermes about Isasion, some mortal prince her mother had slept with in a field, or something -- Although Persephone was quick to assume that Hermes was just spreading gossip like he was known to do. [_“Perse, listen, listen, listen. No, I’m not lying! Ask anyone else.”_]

All this meant was that Persephone was _definitely not_ supposed to be awake right now. She wasn’t supposed to be thinking about Hermes’ drunken babbling from that night.

[“_Kore -- Persephone. Consider: what happens during spring? Sex. All sex, everywhere, all the time. Don’t look at me like that, we both know you know what sex is. Spring is this explosion of passion and energy, life. You know? And Demeter smothers it. It’s ridiculous!_”]

If spring was a natural expression of sexuality, what did that say about her? The actual goddess of spring? She wasn’t even allowed to talk to most men. And how did her mother _know._

Demeter let her going swimming with the nymphs and spend time alone with Hecate. Was it branded across her features? That simmering curiosity?

Persephone had kissed nymphs before. Felt their softness, smelled the sweetness of the perfumes they wore. And they were delightful. But she was soft and sweet too. She already knew all there was to know of springtime and pink and that blooming femininity she wore herself.

Hermes was a friend. He was safe, or at least safer than any mortal who would see the vulnerability of a young goddess not yet grown into her full power. Hermes was _closer_. His boisterous energy and roguish charm was amusing, but not something Persephone felt inherently drawn to.

She studied him, asked him questions. And she had kissed him too. It was a closer match to those warm vibrations that coasted through her body sometimes, but not close enough for her to seek him out for _that_ again.

There was a murmur, some low hum. Persephone stood, looking around as if Demeter was hiding in the shadowy corners, waiting for her daughter to disobey her again.  
With some effort - and a bit of clever work with her vines - Persephone opened her window, looking out into the dark.

_“Shut up!”_ She heard Hecate hiss. Well, she was positive Hecate would never talk to Demeter like that.

So who was on their property?

_“Pleasant, where the gadding vine, Weaves a safe shade to recline With some dainty girl whose breast --”_

_“Hades, I swear to Gaia if you don’t Shut Your Mouth.”_

Hades. _Hades._

The God of the Underworld. Persephone knew little of death. As a concept, yes, she knew mortals _die_. Their souls leave their bodies and reside in the Underworld.

She had overheard a conversation between her mother and Hecate. It had been strained, Demeter plowing through her opinion of Hades while his right-hand woman sat politely vibrating with irritation.

He was one of _them_. No different than his brothers. Maybe he was worse because he pretended to be better. And he reeked of Death. There was something about him that was just… not right. And how could anyone ignore that he looked like his _father_?

Persephone had just as little sense of death as she did of Kronos and the Titans.

_“The women tell me every day That all my bloom has past away. 'Behold,' the pretty wantons cry, 'Behold this mirror with a sigh.”_

Leaving behind a little pile of blue petals, Persephone slipped out the window, hovering behind trees and ducking when her mother’s exasperated glare turned her way.

He was singing mortal songs. She had yet to catch a true glimpse of him, it was like he blended in perfectly with the darkness the same way Hecate did. The moonlight caught onto a few wisps of his hair, reflecting like moonstone.

_“This is completely unacceptable,”_ Demeter snapped, and a branch in the tree next to Persephone cracked in half.

She kept trailing them, hoping to find out more but she couldn’t hear what her mother and Hecate were murmuring to each other with Hades’ singing ringing through the air.  
And then Hades and Hecate were gone, leaving her mother fuming in the rose garden.

But they weren’t _gone_ gone, right? Certainly the Fates wouldn’t bring one of the most powerful gods traipsing across the grounds just to tease Persephone? Where would the fun be in that?

So she searched. She floated from window to window, the chilled summer air raising goosebumps across her immortal flesh. There was this sense of urgency she didn’t completely understand.

_“Keep him in your quarters, Hecate. I will not have him roaming around.”_

_“Of course, My Lady,”_ Hecate had resorted to deferential respect, which was a good move on her part. Demeter liked to pretend she was relaxed but a minor infraction sent her into lectures about respect and traditions.

Persephone didn’t wait to hear the rest of her mother’s lengthy diatribe about the filth the male gods trailed behind them everywhere they went -- or whatever it was she was going to ramble about.

Instead she zipped off to the other end of the estate, sweat gathering at her brow when she finally reached the window to Hecate’s chambers. Her own vines and pink flowers adorned the window frame, some of them spilling out onto the outside wall.

He was sprawled across the rich linens and blankets of Hecate’s bed, and Persephone stopped halfway across the window sill, hand clutching the frame.

He was _big_. Hecate was taller than Persephone and Demeter taller still, but Hades made the bed look like it was meant for a doll.

In Persephone’s world of greens and pinks, yellows, purples, and reds his blue skin and hair were like a shock to her system. She had only seen the ocean a handful of times, there wasn’t much reason for her to go there, at least that was what her mother told her.

Hecate’s blue skin was tamed by her dark hair, veil, and modest dresses. Persephone didn’t know what Hecate wore in the Underworld.

But maybe the sea wasn’t an accurate enough comparison.

Persephone neared the bed, her bare toes just skimming the floor.

Scars criss-crossed his body, like rivers, like lightning, like trails of stars. They made her think of those gods whose legacies were cautionary tales. The Titans imprisoned in Tartarus, Prometheus and the eagle perpetually feasting on his liver, Circe forever exiled.

Gods didn’t bear scars easily. What had he done? He was a member of the Six Traitors Dynasty like her mother and Hestia, but they bore no scars.

The power he emanated was equal parts suffocating and intoxicating, and Persephone was fascinated. What was he like when he was _awake_?

She glanced out the window, smelling smoke, and expected to see mortals building a fire, but there was no one outside within her sight.

A sound close to a snore caught her attention and she nearly squeaked with fright, zipping behind one of the curtains that framed the bed.

“Who’s there?” Deep and husky. A rumble. A mere suggestion of the divine masculinity. Having spent her life watching mortal men, Persephone was not properly prepared for _this_ god. Hermes’ masculinity was young and chaotic and just a little performative. More blue petals popped into existence.

Persephone huddled behind the heaviest curtain at the foot of the bed, deep plum and velvet, her fingers clutching the soft fabric. She could see at least half of him, she wasn’t going to take her eyes off of him entirely. She was sheltered, not dumb.

He shifted, sitting up slightly, “Hello?”

She had never wanted to do something so badly. And she was ruled by impulse pretty regularly. She could just say hello, right? Introduce herself? Ask him who gave him the right to be so -- so. _Much._

Instead, Persephone considered the consequences of being alone with a drunk god, or being found here by her mother, or if he casually mentioned to anyone that the local village flower goddess had snuck in through the window to stare at him.

There was a near-silent _pop_ and she transformed into a pink butterfly. Not necessarily inconspicuous to Demeter or Hecate, but certainly enough to get her past the God of Underworld and his gloriously rumbly voice and overwhelming everything else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The songs Hades sings are by Anacreon, a Greek lyric poet. (The first is "Spring" and the second is "The Women Tell Me Every Day"
> 
> If there are any typos it's because I wrote this while in Torts class -shrug emoji-
> 
> I'm a slut for constructive criticism ;)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> vignettes of Hera's life as a goddess, and her relationship with pain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> back at it again, writing fanfiction instead of studying.
> 
> I've always found Hera really compelling as a goddess, so I wanted to do a little character study oneshot of her.
> 
> NOTE: anything mentioned here that's not canon in LO are from the original greek myths and pantheon.
> 
> any typos are a result of me being too excited to wait to post this

Hera knew pain. Personally, intimately. 

Hera stood in front of the mirror grimacing at the scars across her abdomen. If she turned just the right way they looked like the stretch marks mortal women earned from pregnancy. But she knew better.

Physical pain wasn’t impossible for gods. In their lives of excess and delight, it was unlikely. 

Scars were rare.

Being a goddess lent itself to some amount of pride, vanity. Hera didn’t think she was quite at Aphrodite’s level, but she did wince at herself in the mirror no matter how pretty her lingerie was. A marred goddess? She was the Queen of the Gods and had been desecrated by her own husband.

Mortals decorated shrines, prayed at temples, sculpted marble all for  _ her _ . And yet her own husband held no hesitation before chaining her up in the sky as an example of what happens when  _ anyone _ goes against the almighty Zeus. His  _ wife. _

* * *

  
  


Hera knew the pain of continuously being made small. It was crushing.

Nothing would ever beat the scorching, blinding pain of the chains. But being held under the heel of Zeus was a close second. If only for the wound to her pride.

The Queen of the Gods was not respected for her visions. If her husband took no stock in her clairvoyance, did anyone’s truly matter? At least Cassandra was merely stuck with her curse as a mortal. Hera’s humiliation was infinite.

Every disagreement was tainted with the threat of his command. Everything she did was because he allowed it. Even if it was just because he was too distracted to pay attention to her.

Before she was recognized by the Greeks she was important. She was worshipped by a matriarchal society. She was a Queen by herself, her worth determined only by her own power.

But the Greeks wanted a goddess of marriage, and Hera was available. Who better to exist as an exemplary matron, virgin, woman, goddess, mother than the goddess Zeus desired most?

The Queen of Gods lives in a gilded cage.

* * *

Hera knew the pain of childbirth.

The power had come with the others. She could ease birthing pains just as easily as she could prevent it. She had been vicious. Zeus loved the mortals as much as he loved her -- allegedly. Mortal women were proud to carry Zeus’s heir at first, before Hera’s patience finally wore too thin. 

She could delay a woman for days, weeks -- as long as she wanted. 

Childbirth was different for goddesses. That was why she wasn’t needed for most immortal births.

She hadn’t known. The screams had meant nothing to her until their pain became hers. The tearing, ripping, stabbing. Why would  _ any woman _ do this?

Mortal women fucked by Zeus no longer paraded their swollen bellies with pride. 

* * *

Hera knew the pain the gods caused.

She didn’t know why some visions were more visceral than others. She didn’t understand why she was haunted by the transgressions of the gods.

Wouldn’t Artemis be better suited? The wild virgin goddess, protector of maidens.

Hera stood staring at Apollo’s portrait again. The resemblance he bore to Zeus was striking. 

Persephone’s pain wasn’t new or unique. Nor was the dismissive conversation Hera had had with her husband.

_ “Just a b-grade goddess.” _

_ “Just a mortal.” _

_ “Just a nymph.” _

_ “I thought you enjoyed it.” _

* * *

Hera knew nothing of pain. Once.

Maybe that was why the idea of tending to Aidoneus’s wounds made her feel sick to her stomach. The war was looming over all of them like black thunderclouds, and every day she wished she could hide herself away.

Metis would be one of the first to feel Kronos’s wrath, that was certain. Hera wasn’t sure Metis was strong enough to protect herself, or even if Zeus would have the thought to keep her safe.

Hera spent her days making flower crowns with her sisters and studying marriage rites, she wasn’t fit for war. Could she even die? The concept was so foreign to her she could only imagine it as an endless sleep, but then sleeping was optional to the gods.

Carrying the basket with bandages and salves Hera took one more deep breath. She was a  _ goddess _ . A  _ Titan. _

She had never seen a god vulnerable before. It was startling. She resented how safe she felt knowing that he couldn’t move. That she was free to touch him and speak to him without fear of being taken advantage of.

She had been mistaken for a nymph too many times.

Hera had never been alone. And she was still young enough that thirteen years was an eternity.

There were rules for virgins. She didn’t know they were hypocritical yet, or that at as soon as a god decided they wanted her that the rules didn’t matter.

She wasn’t allowed to be alone with a god, or at least it was discouraged. Unless the god was Zeus or another such pragmatic match.

Never let a god, or man, touch you without the promise of marriage.

Marriage was the goal. An unmarried goddess was only acceptable if she was an eternal maiden.

Always defer to your husband. Always bow to the King.

Accept gifts graciously. Show your best side to the mortals.

But Aidoneus didn’t know any of these rules. He didn’t know that she slept with every window and door locked, fearing an unknown danger she had yet to learn was exhaustingly real.

How could a goddess fear things that go bump in the dark? Why did Zeus have the power to call down thunderstorms and throw bolts of lightning while all she could manage was conjuring a flower garden to tend to?

Hera refused to think of the implications that underlined the comfort she felt with Aidoneus. That the only reason she felt on equal footing with him was because he was silent, immobilized, and weak. 

She hadn’t know that his hand would be warm and solid against her face. Or that her cheeks would warm as if she laying under the sun. She hadn’t been prepared for the vulnerability in his eyes or the depth in them, the yearning for connection.

With false empowerment and bravery, Hera gave her first kiss to the first god to look at her like the goddess she was.

Hera knew nothing of pain. Once. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> p.s. will dance for constructive criticism
> 
> another note: it's been suggested by some scholars that Hera existed in some form as a goddess for a matriarchal society before the ancient Greek co-opted her into what she's known as in their pantheon. (this was actually pretty common, since there were already established societies in "Greece" before the Greeks settled there -- there was a lot of religious meshing going on)


End file.
